“You’ve insulted me for the last time you lily-livered rapscallion, you...you...cowardly, sniveling little, little man, I challenge thee, I challenge thee to a Duel and let death be the end of you!”
“Dear Sir Whine-A-Lot, the only thing challenged here is you and the death of me will be your whiny voice, but, in the interest of chivalry and all things ass-kicking, I accept thy challenge, and furthermore, I demand that this duel be completed in the next seventeen minutes, with both our hands tied behind our backs!!"
“Both hands behind our backs? That's childs play; I say you face certain grisly death no matter what appendages are left at my disposal, therefore I see your hands tied and up the ante: we shall bind our legs as well and how DARE you call me whiny you scum sucking son of an ass-kicked mule!”
“Oh contraire, you son-of-a-motherless goat, it is the bonding of my limbs that make me even more dangerous, and I will henceforth reduce you and your long-winded gas-bagging to nothing more that a faint memory of something quite distasteful... prepare to meet your destiny, fate and many other clichés!!!”
“Ahhhhh, you shall die!!!” As the two misguided miscreants hobble towards each other in slow motion hobbled fury, clouds gather above and the air is charged with electricity; all life on Earth has stopped to observe the outcome of this apocalyptic fracas.
With buzzards circling overhead, each man more determined than the other, they hippity-hop-scotched into one another, clashing heads and stumbling to the ground, they flounder about on the desert floor until Sir-Whine-A-Lot rolls onto his back and exclaims “How does one win one of these contests....”, to which the arrival of a very ravenous buzzard gave him his answer.
(My thanks to my friend, Daniel Stine, for his participation in this piece. We wrote this awhile ago and I thought it nice to re-visit.)